Minnesota Blues
by RionahAnha
Summary: He wishes he looks like he does in those pictures he found in Dean's dresser once, the ones where he's taller than Dean, with big shoulders and messy hair. He wonders if he'll get to look like that again, if tomorrow goes well. He wishes he remembers being bigger than Dean the Almighty. DeAged Sam. T for language.


Sam's got his face smushed against the car window, the glass fogged over and white from his breath. He's craning his neck, to see what, Dean can't imagine. They're in Minnesota in January and there's nothing around them but snow slushed highway and empty white fields.

Dean looks back to the road, but a wet noise draws his attention to the passenger's seat again. "Sam, what the hell- are you licking the window?"

Sam draws his head back abruptly. "No."

"Jesus, Sammy, that's disgusting-"

"Dean, I'm _bored_." Sam draws out the last word until it's longer than the whole rest of the sentence. He lolls his head back against the seat leather and rolls his eyes. "I'm so _bored_."

"Well, find something else to do besides lick my frigging car, okay? That's gross."

Sam huffs, rolls his eyes again. Dean has to bite his tongue to keep his impatience at bay. Sam wasn't nearly this annoying the first time he was seven.

"Dean, when can we stop?"

"When we get to Ridgepole."

"Is that the next town?"

"No."

Sam huffs again. His knees jerk, and the toes of his boots kick the glove box. "Dean."

Dean doesn't answer. He's not going to play this game again, not today.

Another kick. "Dean."

A road sign flashes by – Clairmounte, Minnesota. Fifty miles.

Another kick. "Dean-"

"Sammy, I swear to God, if you kick my car one more time I'm going to-"

"What?" Sam smirks. "You're _going to turn this car around, so help me God_?"

The little shit. He knows that Dean has no leverage. He knows Dean is floundering, struggling, fumbling. It's been two years and Dean is still no closer to figuring out how to fix this stupid thing than he was when it first happened. He knows Dean won't do anything to him – not really, anyways- and he's been taking advantage of that for the last four days.

Dean glares at his little brother out of the corner of his eye. Sam is still watching him, that annoying little kid smirk carved onto his face. It makes Dean want to scream. He would, but he's the grown up here, he has to set the example; he has to handle this like a responsible adult would. So he squints his eyes, grips the wheel a little tighter, and counts to ten.

Sam is silent in the seat beside him. Then, when Dean says nothing, does nothing, he very casually stretches out a leg and taps, ever so gently, the underside of the glove box.

That's it. It's been four days of this shit and _that's it_.

Dean spins the wheel, jerks them to side of the road. Sam slides up against the door with the sudden movement, then forward when Dean slams on the break. He turns wide brown eyes on Dean as he throws the car into park and faces Sam.

"In the back."

"Dean-"

"_Now_."

Sam swallows, takes a minute to gauge Dean's mood. It's well past funny now, past the point of no return. He doesn't even think about arguing any further as he undoes his seatbelt and, being careful not to accidently kick Dean, clambers over the top of the seat and settles himself into the back. He is barely buckled in when Dean throws the car back into drive and jumps back onto the interstate, tires spinning in the mud.

Dean accelerates. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes meet Sam's in the rearview and he makes sure his little brother knows that he's not screwing around, that he's not joking. He's got a long drive behind him and a nasty job ahead of him and Sam's disrespectful, irritating behavior over the last few days sure as shit is not going to fly with him anymore. He holds Sam's gaze until his little brother looks down, then puts his focus back on the highway and the task.

Sam hates the back seat. He hates it more than he hates lima beans, more than he hates Riley at school, more than he hates the way Dean makes him go to bed at eight thirty every single night. He has this vague idea, in the back of his mind, that he used to ride up front all of the time, before this happened. He doesn't remember really, and Dean gets upset whenever he brings it up, so he keeps it to himself. But a long time ago, he likes to pretend, he used to ride up front and Dean never regulated him to the back seat, even when he wasn't in trouble.

He gives it a few minutes. He's not sure how long, because he's not tall enough yet to see over the top of the seat to the dashboard clock, but it's long enough for four songs to play through. Then he asks, hopefully, "Dean… can I come back up now?"

"No."

Sam huffs. The backseat is boring. There's no knobs to play with and he can't see anything and he's all alone. "Please?"

"No."

Sam huffs again. He crosses his arms and throws himself back against the seat. He can see Dean's profile, the way his jaw is tightening, and Sam allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. Pissing off his brother is what he does best, or so Dean always tells him. He huffs again, louder and more dramatic, and is pleased when a muscle in Dean's neck jumps.

Dean still doesn't say anything, so Sam figures he's still mostly safe from his brother's wrath. That and he's in the back seat, where Dean can't reach him. Not like he'd actually do anything, but he's threatened to, a few times, and Sam reckons that sooner or later, Dean is probably going to follow through, just to save face. But he also knows that on the side of a semi-busy highway in Minnesota is not the place Dean is going to choose, so he digs himself into the leather of the seat- just in case- and kicks as hard as he can at the back of Dean's seat.

The result is instantaneous. Sam takes a moment to marvel at himself, at his power, before he is thrown around by the stop-dead force of the Imapala's brakes. He rights himself in time to register Dean throwing the car into park and swinging open his door.

Sam's heart drops. That's not a good sign. Dean actually getting out of the car, instead of just shooting threats over the seat, is never a good sign. He scrambles with his seat belt, tries to figure out where he can run to, but he's not fast enough. Dean has the door open and is right there, his hand around Sam's arm before he can even find the seatbelt's release button.

"You listen to me." Dean's grip is tight. Not tight enough to hurt, but Sam knows that if he plays it right, Dean will end up guilty instead of angry. He whimpers and pushes at his brother's hand, but Dean is past caring. He brushes Sam's hands away and says, forcefully, "I'm sick of this crap, you got it? I know you don't want to be here. I know you'd rather be home, be at school, be away from his awful shitty weather, but you're not, okay? Hell, I don't even want to be here, but we are, and your attitude isn't helping anything at all, you got it? So cut it out, or you _will_ be in trouble. You hear me?"

Sam won't look at him. He whimpers again and pulls at his arm, but Dean has had it. Dean hates giving these speeches, these ultimatums, but he's the adult here, the parent, and that comes with the territory. He pulls Sam back towards him, uses his other hand to force Sam's chin up, so they're eye to eye. He hates the look he sees on Sam's face- that anger, that fear- but that comes with the territory too. He gives into Sam, more than he'd like to admit, but sometimes, enough is just plain old enough.

"Do you understand me?"

Sam whimpers again, tries to pull his face away, but Dean keep his grip firm. He knows his own strength, knows he's not hurting Sam, and he'll be damned if he's backing down now.

"Sam. Do you understand me?"

Slowly, miserably, Sam nods. Dean lets go of him, watches him sink back into the seat, his hands clutched together in his lap and his head bowed. Dean feels suddenly, overwhelmingly lost. He'd give anything, he thinks, to have his Sam back, the Sam that he didn't have to cook dinner for and keep a steady job for and discipline. It's been two long damn years, and the loss of his best friend still digs at him every day.

He closes the car door and climbs back into the driver's seat. He takes a minute to collect himself, to steel himself against the small, hitched breathing coming from the back seat. He'll comfort Sammy later, when it's not so close to the incident that it will look like him giving in, but when he flips the radio back on, he switches it to that soft blues station Sammy likes so much before pulling back out onto the highway.

Its four more hours to Ridgepole, and the sunlight is fading when Dean pulls into the parking spot at the motel. It's almost the same routine it used to be, but he's checking in with his own name now and with his own credit card, backed by his own money. There's no weapons duffel to carry into the room- just a suitcase of his and Sammy's clothes, a backpack with a Transformers on it, and a blanket Sam just can't seem to sleep without. Sam is surly and quiet, right at Dean's heels as he unlocks the door and steps inside. The room is never going to get five stars anywhere, but it's clean and neat and there's no Playboy bunnies on the walls, so Dean likes it.

Sam doesn't. Sam doesn't like any room that's not the one he goes to bed in every night in Old Grave. He doesn't like change, doesn't like these trips. He doesn't remember his first childhood, the instability of a constantly fluctuating home life, but there's still that part of him that hates anything that isn't solid and cemented in stone.

Dean puts the bags on the beds and rummages around the room for a minute. The kitchenette is clean; the gas range stove top is lit. The bathroom is orderly. There are no bugs in the bathtub or toilet. He relieves himself and steps back out to find Sam standing in the same spot, right in front of the door, his coat and boots dripping melting snow and mud into the carpet.

Dean smiles a little. "Sammy, man, take your coat off, stay awhile."

Sam glowers at him, but he unzippers his coat and wrestles his arms out. He stands there, coat clutched in his arm, and stares at his feet. Dean sighs.

"Come on." Crossing the room, he takes the coat from Sam's hands and drapes it over a chair before picking Sam up. To his surprise, his little brother clings to him, wraps his legs around Dean's waist and buries his face in his collar bone. Dean doesn't begrudge him the contact. John would have. Not for the first time since it happened, Dean is silently thankful that John isn't here.

"You want dinner, Sammy?"

Sammy shakes his head. His hair is damp, and smells like rain. Dean sighs. It's not that late and Sam's not that tired – he slept most of the afternoon in the back seat- but Dean knows how to handle this. This clingy, anxious, scared Sam is one he's familiar with. Even twenty years ago, he knew how to handle this. He carries Sam into the bathroom, sets him down on the floor.

He flicks on the shower, making sure the curtain is drawn and there are plenty of towels before turning back to his brother. Sam is chewing on a thumbnail. Dean gently pries the hand away from his mouth.

"Okay- how about you take a shower and get into your pajamas, and I'll order some pizza, okay?"

Sam nods reluctantly. He bends at the waist and tugs at a shoe lace. Dean watches him a moment. "You want any help?"

Sam shakes his head, still wordless, and Dean steps around him. "Holler if you need me, okay?" Sam kicks off a shoe and Dean closes the door, presses his forehead against it. Two years, and this never gets any easier.

Sam takes his time in the shower. He likes showers, more than he likes baths. Usually, he likes to pretend that he's in a rainforest, underneath a waterfall. The shower wall behind the spray of water, where the knobs are, is the cave behind the waterfall. He likes to crouch there and hold his hand under the water until it tingles from the force of the water droplets. Sometimes he takes so long that Dean has to come in and wash him, quickly, so they can make the damned eight-thirty bedtime.

Not tonight. Tonight, Sam stands dully under the shower head and washes his hair. He gets a little shampoo in his eye, but he digs away the tears with the knuckles of his hand and rinses his head. He washes his body and turns off the water. He watches the water swirl down the drain and stands there, shivering in the sudden loss of the water, until it's too cold and he has to get out.

He wraps himself in a scratchy motel towel and stands on the toilet seat to see in the mirror. Dean hates when he stands on the toilet. That's how he broke their toilet seat last summer, climbing on it. Falling off it is how he got that neat little scar, right on the underside of his chin. It's about the length of his thumbnail and already fading.

He studies his reflection in the mirror. He's still skinny, still scrawny. He wishes he looks like he does in those pictures he found in Dean's dresser once, the one where's he taller than Dean, with big shoulders and messy hair. He wonders if he'll get to look like that again, if tomorrow goes well. He wishes he remembers being bigger than Dean the Almighty.

He climbs off the toilet and, stepping over his pile of clothes, opens the door that leads to the motel room. Dean is perched on the end of one of the beds, flipping through channels. He looks over when Sam opens the door.

"All set, kiddo?"

Sam hates being called kiddo. Sometimes. Tonight is one of those times. He ignores Dean, pads over to his bed, where Dean has pajamas laid out. Clutching the towels tight around his chest, he critiques his selection and scowls. "I hate these ones."

He doesn't really, and Dean knows that. He waits for his older brother to rise to the bait, to call him out on his shitty attitude, but he doesn't. Instead, Dean leans over, ruffles through his suitcase, and pulls out a t-shirt. "Want to wear one of mine?"

Sam doesn't answer, but he holds out one hand, and Dean tosses him the shirt. It's his favorite one- Sam's favorite, of Dean's. It's dark grey and the collar is frayed and the Led Zeppelin insignia across the front is so faded it's barely recognizable, but it's soft and smells like Dean, so he'll take it.

He dresses and leaves his towel on the floor. Again, he waits for Dean to call him on it, but Dean only picks it up and goes back into the bathroom, where he hangs it over the curtain rod and gathers Sam's dirty clothes from the floor. Sam sits on his bed and runs his fingers through his knotted hair and muses at the change in his brother. At home, Dean would have made him clean up after himself, would have scolded him or at least frowned at his behavior, but here, four days away from home, he just quietly sets the room to rights before coming back out and picking up the television remote.

The pizza comes soon after, and Dean lets Sam sit on the floor in front of the television while he eats. The cheese is gooey and Sam chokes on it twice before Dean takes it away and cuts it up. When he hands the plate back to Sam, he glares up at his older brother.

"You touched it. I don't want it."

Dean purses his lips, but, without a word, he goes back to the table where the box of pizza is. He puts another piece on another plate and carries it back to Sam, along with a plastic fork and knife. He waits until Sam takes it before sitting on the end of the bed again. He keeps an eye on his little brother as Sam painstakingly cuts the pizza into bite sized pieces himself. He gets sauce all over his hands and wrists, but he licks it off and Dean lets him. He leans against his older brother's knees and chews the pizza methodically, not really tasting it, his eyes glued to the television set.

Dean still makes him go to bed at eight thirty. He holds Sam up by the waist so he can brush his teeth and spit into the sink. He washes his face, brushes his hair, and tucks Sam in with that blanket he can't sleep without. Sam hates it when Dean calls it his security blanket. He calls it Blankie and that's what Dean should call it too.

Dean turns on the small light in the kitchenette and turns off the overhead. He sits at the table, next to the pizza box and the cardboard plates, and turns on the laptop. Sam watches him from his spot in the bed, Blankie wrapped around his torso. It's hot and he kicks his feet free of the scratchy motel comforter. Dean glances his way but doesn't say anything.

"I can't sleep."

Dean quirks an eye brow at Sam. "You haven't tried." It's not even eight forty five; Sam hasn't even been in bed more than ten minutes. On the bed, Sam kicks again. The blanket slides off.

"I can't." Sam twists around. Blankie winds himself around one arm. "It's too hot."

"Lie still and you'll cool down."

"I _can't_." Sam kicks his heels against the mattress. "It's too hot and this bed_ sucks_."

"Watch it." Dean's admonition is stern. Sam lies still while his brother stands, crosses the room to Sam's side. He picks up the blanket off of the floor, covers Sam with it, and unwinds Blankie from his hold around Sam. Then he sits on the side of the bed and strokes his brother's wild dark hair off of his forehead. "Want me to turn the radio on?"

Dean doesn't offer that often, usually only when Sam is sick or hurt or it's his birthday. Sam doesn't answer, just rolls away, but Dean goes over to the bedside radio-alarm and fiddles with it till he finds that soft blues station he had on in the car. Then he kisses Sam's head, though he tries to squirm away, and goes back to his seat at the kitchenette table.

The morning brings snow and an even crankier Sammy. He whines getting out of bed, whines brushing his teeth, and whines getting dressed. He doesn't like the clothes Dean had brought, he doesn't like the way the motel room toothpaste tasted, he doesn't like the cold. He wants to be in school, he misses his friends, it was Taco Thursday, and he was supposed to kick Riley's butt after class. He was going to look like a wimp if he didn't show up. He wants Blankie to come with them to breakfast. He doesn't want breakfast. He doesn't like pancakes anymore, and when he purposely spills his orange juice all over the red Formica table in Denny's, he doesn't even apologize to the poor waitress who has to clean it up.

But finally- finally- it's eleven o'clock and Dean pulls up to the address the witch had given him over the phone last month. It's a normal looking house, set back against a nicely landscaped lawn on a boring little cul-de-sac, but Dean's skin still crawls all the same. He _hates_ witches. He hates coming to them, bringing Sammy to them. But if they can do anything, anything at all, he'll swallow his prejudice for a few minutes.

In the back seat, Sam was pouting. He doesn's move when Dean turns off the engine, or when Dean gets out of the car. He pointedly ignores him when Dean opens the door and politely asks Sammy to come out of the car. Dean waits a moment, then, with his pulse rising in his ears, leans into the car, unbuckles Sam himself, and yanks him out. He hoists his little brother to his hip and ignore his squirming as he makes his way up the recently shoveled sidewalk. He knocks on the red front door.

The lady who answers the door isn't very witch-like. She's young, only a little older than Dean, with strawberry blonde hair tucked back into a pony tail and freckles scattered above a wide smile. Her house smella like baking cookies, and when Dean steps over the threshold, two little boys poke their heads out of a doorway to stare at him.

Her name is Ileane Hannigan, and she's four hundred and seventy years old. "Give or take a couple decades," she jokes, and Dean forces himself to chuckle politely. He hates this, this playing around. Two years ago he would have pulled out a knife and ganked her on the spot. Two years ago, he would have had Sam at his back and not perched on his hip.

"Why don't you let him play with the boys in the living room while we talk?" She suggests softly, and Dean puts Sam on his feet, tugs his coat off of him, and smoothes his hair back off of his forehead. Sam jerks away from his touch, looks down at his feet.

"Be good," Dean warns, and leaves him in the unfamiliar room with the two little blond boys who watch him warily from behind the coffee table.

He waits until Dean was gone before asking, "Are you guys witches in training?"

The little boy on the right blinks. "Are you the one that used to be old?" He aska, and Sam digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He hates these trips, these houses, these people who asked him stupid questions that he doesn't know the answers to. Did he used to be bigger? He can't remember. He's not even sure if he tall guy in the pictures was really him, or if Dean was just pulling his leg.

The boys study him. "Want to watch Spongebob?" One of them asks, and Sam nods thickly. Spongebob is familiar. Spongebob he can handle. He sits beside them on top of the coffee table and they turn on the television. He thinks that is kind of cool. They don't have a coffee table at home.

He knows that in the other room, Dean and the witch are talking about him. Dean will be telling her the story. Sam hates it when Dean does that. He hates hearing that story. He likes being a kid. He gets to go to school and he has sleep overs and he plays on the baseball team. On weekends, Dean sometimes takes him to the ranch on the edge of town and he gets to ride the horses in the desert sometimes. His other life, what little Dean had let slip to him before, doesn't sound like much fun. Too many people died. He doesn't want that back.

They watch two episodes of Spongebob and one of Diego before Dean appears in the doorway. Sam follows him across the hall, into the kitchen, dragging his feet. He hates this part the most, more than he hates Dean talking about him with some woman he doesn't even know.

It's a normal looking kitchen, except for the weird herbs hanging above the center island and the eerie looking candles and bowls and bottles all over it. Dean picks Sam up and sits on a stool at the island. He holds Sam tight on his lap as Ileane drops stuff into a bowl, chants over it, waves her fingers. Dean's body is rigid, controlled- Sam wants to burrow into it, but he doesn't think Dean will like that very much right now.

It takes a long time. Ileane chants over something in a bowl. Sam drinks it. Nothing happens. She opens a new book, mixes some more stuff together, sprinkles it over Sam's head. Nothing happens. She digs around in a drawer, chops some stuff up, holds it under Sam's chin. Nothing happens. All the while, Dean grows harder and harder, until he's so stiff that Sam is sure he'll never going to be able to move again.

Ileane steps away from the island, her smile gone. Her hair is damp, pressed against her neck and the sides of her face. She coughs into her hand, which is shaking. "I'm sorry, Dean."

It's always the same. Always the _I'm sorries_ and _I've never seen anything like it_ and _Let me give you this number; he may be able to help_. Sam slidesoff of Dean's lap, leans against his brother's leg. He's tired. He wishes he'd brought Blankie in with him from the car.

"It's all right." Dean sounds wooden, hollowed out. He stands, ruffling his fingers along the top of Sam's head. Sam leans into the touch. "You did what you could. Thank you."

Ileane nods. Her eyes are wet. Dean reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, but she holds out a hand, shaking her head. She sees something, Sam thinks, something in his brother that was somehow escaping even him. "Please don't," she says softly. "Take some cookies with you. Take care of him."

Dean coughs, slides the wallet back into his pocket. Sam grapples at his brother's fingers, holds them tight. "You wouldn't- you wouldn't know anyone else?"

Ileane turns away. She is slipping warm, soft smelling cookies into a plastic Ziplock bag. "I do know someone, down in New Orleans…"

Sam zones out the rest of the conversation. He waits dully while Dean slides him back into his coat, zippers it shut, and picks him back up. He holds the bag of cookies against his chest and ignores Ileane's fingers when they brush gently across his cheek. He wonders if Dean showed her the picture, the one where he was taller than his brother. He ignores the two little blond boys when they wave to him from the doorway. He's silent as Dean buckles him in, spreads Blankie over his lap. It's one thirty when they pull away from the curb and loop around the cul-de-sac.

They get lunch at a McDonald's drive through. Sam eats some fries, nibbles on a nugget. He spills a little of his chocolate milk on the seat and Dean doesn't say anything. He just mops it up with a napkin and keeps driving.

They were on the interstate when Dean spoke. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam shrugs. He licks the salt off of a fry and dips it in his barbeque sauce. "It's okay. I don't miss him."

Dean bites his lip. He feels dangerously close to tears, but he pushes them back. Sammy doesn't need to see that, doesn't know, doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't miss Sam. He doesn't remember the things that Dean does, the things that Dean has to endure alone. He reaches over and brushes a hand over Sam's cheek, where Ileane had touched him.

"You hate these trips, huh?"

Sam shrugs one shoulder. He sticks his pointer finger in his chocolate milk and swirls it around. "I just wish I was in school. Riley's gonna think I'm a wimp. I'm gonna hafta kick his butt on Monday now."

"You better not."

Dean lets the threat hang in the air between them. Sam scowls at his finger, dripping with milk. He sticks it in his mouth and sucks on it. "He starts it."

"Let it go, Sammy." Dean stares at Sam until he catches his brother's gaze, and he holds it. "You're better than that."

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. "_Fine_."

Dean watches him a moment longer, then chuckles. "That's my boy," he says softly, and Sam crumples up his napkins and sticks them back in the Happy Meal box.

"Can we have some cookies now?" He asks, and Dean smiles wryly.

"Sure, Sammy."

Sam crowes and slides open the bag. He rummages around in it a moment, then emerges with a cookie bigger than his hand. He holds it out across the seat.

"Here you go, Dean," he says kindly. "It's the biggest one."

Dean feels a tear prick his eye, catch in his throat. He takes the cookie from Sammy and smiles at his little brother, who smiles back with all of the openness that only a little boy can muster. He takes a bite of the cookie, turns the radio to that soft blues station, and settles back against the leather seat.

It's stopped snowing. Beside him, Sam chatters ceaselessly about Spongebob while he munches on his cookies. He has chocolate around his mouth and in his hair and Dean determines, quietly, that when they stop for the night, he's going to take that paper with the address in New Orleans out of his pocket, and he's going to burn it.


End file.
